


Prologue: The Bees and the Dandelion

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why Sherlock loves bees and John is John</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prologue: The Bees and the Dandelion

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my ever so persistent beta maggie_conagher (maggie_conagher.livejournal.com) and the elusive ghislainem70 (ghislainem70.livejournal).

_The term “Dandelion child” is used in Norway and Denmark for children who manage to fight their way through life despite a problematic upbringing, typically due to domestic violence, child or drug abuse. The dandelion is a flower, which grows in the most improbable places, breaking through asphalt and concrete, to stand erect and stretch toward the sun._

Young Sherlock, seven years of age, registering everything around him, tries to make sense of data, information, knowledge. On good days he can calm down with a game of chess against his brother; on bad days he can’t focus and everything around him becomes chaotic.

On one of those bad days, he finds himself in the very back of the garden, close to the orchard belonging to the estate. Along the lines of fruit trees, small houses of wood are placed. Beehives. The sun is shining and the fruit trees are in blossom. The bees are everywhere.

He sits down in front of one beehive, placed a little away from the others. He sits and watches for several hours. He can see one bee flying in front of the entrance. Not flying, dancing. His mind registers the movements, tries to distinguish the bees from each other. There are different kinds of bees, different movements, but also different kinds of work to be done, it seems.

When he finally returns to the main house, his mind works calmly on the data that he gathered during the day. He dreams of bees that night, his mind cataloguing the size, shape, flying patterns, putting it together, deducing the crucial differences.

The next day, Sherlock is at the beehive as soon as possible. He had watched the beekeeper from a distance the day before and knows how to open the roof of the hive. After a calm and cautious approach, Sherlock takes off the roof of his beehive, puts it down and looks into the hive itself. Again movements, peculiarities, behaviours register in Sherlock’s mind. And he feels his mind quieting, working on detecting the patterns in front of him. Hexagon shaped honeycombs; larvae in different stages of development; building and rebuilding of new cells, combs.

The bees don’t seem to mind Sherlock. He stands still for hours, breathing calmly. The bees land on him. Sometimes the bees will become angry and aggressive. Not towards him, but towards a stray wasp or spider. The fight between the species is new data to Sherlock, who absorbs everything.

On the third day he makes it to the beehive early in the morning. He takes some food and a blanket with him, sitting down in the damp grass in front of his beehive. The sun has gained in strength and the bees are starting their day’s work. And then it happens. A mouse crawls up to the entrance of the hive. Sherlock almost forgets to breathe. The bees seem oblivious to the intruder until the mouse slips into the hive itself.

Sherlock jumps up just as everything around him goes frantic. The buzzing inside the hive is deafening. It seems as if all the bees from the outside want to get inside the hive aggressively buzzing in the front of the entrance, which is covered in bees.

Sherlock tries to get closer, aware of the aggression, which is not directed towards him, but he can feel it, hear it, almost smell it. His mind collects the data, seems to turn everything into slow motion like a movie film. He has to remind himself to breath, and to do so very carefully. The bees are everywhere and a wrong move could redirect the anger towards him.

Sherlock would love to have a look inside the hive right now, but it seems impossible to open the roof with the bees in this mood. So he just stands in the middle of it all, listening, watching, smelling.

“Oi!” Sherlock almost startles at the loud shout directed towards him. He turns slowly and can make out the figure of the beekeeper in his protective clothing with a veil in front of his face. He tries to signal to Sherlock. Slowly and cautiously, Sherlock steps away from the hive, towards the beekeeper.

“What are you doing, young man?!” he demands to know.

Sherlock looks at him, his mind still working on the bees. “Watching the bees.”

“Without proper clothing? Standing in the middle of an angry bee swarm?” The beekeeper seems genuinely concerned. He looks almost like the astronaut, Sherlock has seen in the pictures of his encyclopaedia, in the white clothing with the dark veil in front of his face. 

“Are you alright?”

Sherlock looks surprised. “Of course.” He frowns. So much data, he doesn’t want to talk to that man right now. He wants a look inside the hive.

“Better tell your mother that you are okay,” the beekeeper continues.

“What?” Sherlock’s mind comes back to the present. “No, she... I am fine. There is no need to tell her about this.” 

No, his mother mustn’t know anything about this. He wouldn’t be permitted to get anywhere near the bees again if she found out.

“Does she know, that you are here?”

“She knows I am... on the grounds. And that I will be back for dinner.”

The beekeeper looks at the boy in front of him. “And what would you be doing until dinnertime?” he asks Sherlock.

“Watching the bees.”

“Watching the bees?”

Sherlock looks annoyed at the beekeeper. “Yes. I just said so.”

The beekeeper watches the bees from Sherlock’s beehive. With a respectful nod he turns back to Sherlock: “Would you like to get to know more about the bees and how to keep them?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. More data. “Yes!”

“Hm. But you have to put on some protective clothing and a veil. I won’t have your mother having a go at me because you got stung by a bee.”

“They don’t sting.”

“Don’t be too sure about it. You have been watching some very special bees. The dark bee. It’s almost extinct and our hive may be the last of its kind in Britain at the time being.”

“That’s why they are almost black? Not like the others, which are golden or yellow?”

“Yes. It’s one of the very old breeds, which originated in Britain. They can sting, but they rarely do it. What happened before?”

“A mouse went inside.”

“Not good. Dead mouse, dead bees.”

“The mouse is dead? How?”

“Stung to death by the bees. And the bees, which stung, are dead as well. They lose their stinger; sometimes the whole back part of the bee is torn off.”

“They sacrificed themselves?”

“Yes, you can say that.”

While they are talking, the bees have calmed down. Sherlock is anxious to get back to the hive and have a look inside of it.

“Not before you are in proper gear.”

Sherlock sighs. Then follows the beekeeper to his shed. While the beekeeper sorts out protective clothing like his, Sherlock asks:

“Does your niece come here often?” Sherlock thinks that he may have found someone else interested in bees. Someone his own age.

The beekeeper is surprised. “How do you...?”

Sherlock is thinking about the bees again, and then collects himself and points at some boots in the corner. “Pink. Girl’s boots. You have clothing, which I almost fit in. And no ring on your finger. Niece.”

“Not as often as I would like,” the beekeeper responds with an impressed smile on his face.

Coming back to the hive, everything seems to have returned to normal. The beekeeper indicates a little pile of dead bees in front of the hive.

“Casualties from the fight with the mouse.”

“How did they get out of there?”

“The workers take them and dispose of them. So they won’t infect the hive. If you have looked inside, you will know that a beehive is kept very clean.”

Sherlock nods. He had wondered about that.

“What about the mouse?”

The beekeeper is smiling. “Let’s have a look.”

They take the roof off the hive. Inside the bees are busy flying, crawling and buzzing in one of the corners below the entrance. The mouse is lying dead and it is already covered with some material.

“What’s that?” Sherlock indicates.

“Propolis. It’s a bit like bee wax, but antiseptic. They will cover the whole mouse with it. Sealing it off from the hive. It will be mummified, but it won’t rot or create a disease inside the hive.”

Sherlock is impressed. The bees can’t get the mouse out of the hive, so they have to protect themselves and the generations to come by encapsulating the danger.

Some weeks later the beekeeper will show Sherlock what has become of the mouse. Sherlock will have driven the young cook of the house mad by asking for different kinds of honey, so he could experiment on the taste, colouring, use in different kinds of foods, at the same time exploring which flowers and fruits were responsible for the differences. His mother will by then have accepted her youngest son’s interest in bees and apiculture, and the beekeeper and Sherlock will spend a lot of time together.

_Sherlock has made a friend. A friend the young child will cherish for a few years to come until Sherlock’s world will be turned up side down by events unleashed upon him through the doings of adults. The memories of the beekeeper and his bees will be buried deep inside Sherlock’s memory. Too deep to be reached by remembrance alone, and far too deep to be deleted on a whim. When the memories eventually resurface, Sherlock will regard them with astonishment._

 

xXx

 

It was a hot day. John was tired, sore, and frightened. He couldn’t stop his Dad last night. In the end he grabbed Harry and left Mum behind, just trying to get out of the flat and away from the beating and the drunken shouting. Getting out of the house was easy since Dad was too drunk to stop him. But John was always afraid of being stopped by the police or other adults so he took the shortest way into the park, using cars and trees as hiding places.

Finding a park bench or an empty space to put together a makeshift bed from cardboard boxes or old newspapers wasn’t always easy. But somehow John always found a place so Harry could sleep the rest of the night.

This night he had found an unused park bench, hidden behind some bushes. Harry had slept in his arms; she was so small, only five years old. To him she looked just like a little fairy. He was twice her age, and maybe not that big as well, but he was quick and could take down anyone who would try and hurt her. Almost anyone, he thought.

He really tried to stop their Dad, but during the last weeks he had come home more drunk and angrier than ever before. John had to choose if he wanted to save Harry or Mum.

Mum. How he needed her right now. Her smile, without bruises on her face or her eyes glassy with the drink. Just to be there in her arms. To sleep, relax, feel safe. Just for a few hours, just...

“John Watson!”

The voice was shouting at him. John flinched. He was on his feet, left arm raised to protect himself from the expected blow, right arm held out in front of his... classmate? That was not the voice of his Dad. 

John was awake now and realised that he was in his classroom, his new teacher standing in front of him with wide eyes. The anger in her voice didn’t match the look of disbelief in her face. John tried to take a few deep breaths, but he was trembling and feeling ashamed.

“What is that on your arm?” the teacher wanted to know.

“Nothing,” John mumbled, trying to hide the bruises on his arm.

His classmates shot stolen glances at him. Their new teacher didn’t seem pleased, and John looked down at his desk. He noticed her shoes. They were practical, not high heeled like the other teachers’.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Look at me!” the teacher demanded,  “What... How did that happen?” she enquired, concern in her voice.

John didn’t answer. He had turned red and kept his eyes on the desk in front of him. He suddenly felt dirty and sweaty. Harry had needed clean clothes this morning. He hadn’t had time to change after they came back home to the flat and before they had to leave for school. Mum was still drunk and Dad... John snapped back into the classroom.

The teacher looked at the other pupils in the class. Nobody wanted to meet her glance. She was new to the class because his regular teacher took a bad fall and broke her arm and her leg. But she didn't seem new to teaching. 

“John?”

“Yes,” he said very quietly.

“See me after school please.”

John nodded. It wouldn’t be the first time he had to try and explain why he had fallen asleep or how he got the bruises. She was new, he could reuse some of the old excuses and won’t have to invent new lies.

He stayed at his desk after the other children leave.

“Well,” the teacher, Mrs Bowen, tried to sound encouraging, “I have been talking to several of my colleagues, and they are telling the same story, more or less. You seem to be tired and beaten up at least once a week. So, what’s the story? And don’t give me one of those you already have told them!” 

John stayed quiet, his ears burning, as were his eyes. The room fell silent.

Mrs Bowen cleared her throat and said tentatively: “Well, I talked to some of your classmates as well.”

John looked up, his eyes wide in alarm. “They didn’t...” his voice petered out, but he held her gaze.

Mrs Bowen cleared her throat once more. “They told me about your family. About your... father in particular.”

John looked away again. He was breathing hard, and he could feel the tears in his eyes. He clenched his hands into fists, trying to fight down the fear. “Please...” was all he could say.

Mrs Bowen continued, “John, I have to tell Child Protection about this.”

“No! Please, no. They will put Harry and me in care and... Then Mum would be... alone...” His voice died away again.

“John, you are ten years old. You can’t go on like this. This is something Child Protection has to deal with.” She took a deep breath. “Unless you have other relatives you could go to?”

He shook his head. He suddenly felt dizzy and reached out to balance himself. Mrs Bowen took his arm and led him to a chair. A moment later she took his hand and placed a glass of water in it, holding his hand until he could grip the glass without shaking. He held the glass with both hands and drinks.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes,” his voice was still weak, but the room wasn’t spinning anymore.

“John, you had good grades last year. That has changed during this term. What happened? Has your f... when did... it... start?”

John still didn’t want to talk about it. This was something he had to deal with on his own. Nobody else should be concerned about ‘it’.

“When was the last time you had a good night’s sleep?” He shrugged. She continued, “Listen. It seems as if you have been able to fool everybody else... well, at least the other teachers and adults around you into believing your stories as to how...” She cleared her throat and looked down at the floor. “John, we could try something else before I contact Child Protection. At least until the summer holidays.”

That was three weeks away. Then the holidays would mean a break from inquiries, nosey teachers, and classmates that wanted to tattle. It would also mean... John stopped that train of thought with an effort. He looked at Mrs Bowen. He noticed the smile on her face. Had it been there the whole time?

“If... it... happens again, you can take Harry and come to my place and stay there for the night.”

John was surprised. And immediately suspicious. “Why?”

“Because I want to help you. You can’t do this on your own, John. You need help. Your family needs help.” She paused and cleared her throat again before she continued. “My offer will stand no matter what you decide. And I will not talk to the authorities, unless...”

John looked at her.

“Unless it gets worse in the next weeks.”

Mrs Bowen had given him her address and phone number. John still felt a little dizzy and light headed, but he couldn’t decide whether it was because of the offer or because of the lack of sleep and proper food for the past few days.

He got Harry from preschool. Nobody any longer asked why his parents weren’t bringing and collecting Harry. She showed him a plaster on her knee. “I fell out of a tree!” She told him to take off the Band Aid, to look at ‘all the blood’. A scratch really, but John looked it over, asked the teacher for a new Band Aid and even did some cleaning of the wound. Harry was very proud of the new Band Aid, pointing out to the other mums how she got it and that her brother put it on. He got her out of the school before she told too much.

John hated lying and had promised himself that as an adult he would never put a child in that position. He was sure, several of Harry’s and his own teachers knew about ‘it’. How could they not? Mrs Bowen is the very first to do somethingso. And he didn’t even need to tell her. He didn’t, did he?

He stopped. Harry looked up to him. She had been babbling on about the scratch on her knee. John looked at Harry and started to smile.

“What now, big brother?”

“Oh, nothing.” John kept smiling, so Harry started as well.

They walked on again. John replayed the conversation with Mrs Bowen. He was sure she knew what she was talking about. She was one of them. She had been through the same thing. He could trust her.

The very first time, John took Mrs Bowen up on her offer was just a few days later. She didn’t ask any questions and he kept schtum. But for the first time in weeks Harry and he slept through the rest of night in a bed with nice clean sheets. In the morning breakfast was waiting, three pieces of toast, butter and honey. Mrs Bowen even found a small jumper for John to wear. There was a chill in the air, but John was feeling safe and warm.

_Meeting Mrs Bowen was the start of a new understanding of life for John. His path would never be easy, but he would be able to decide about his own way in life. He would fight his way through medical school and continue his fight in the army. Because that day John realised that he could manage life and its challenges if he found one friend he could rely on._

 

**Chapter One: Breaking a flower (Not a kidfic any longer!)[>>](../works/443653)**


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